


Shades of Love

by OwlEspresso



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: Is something different now?





	Shades of Love

**Author's Note:**

> My writing blog is [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/).

\---  
You're really not sure where this started. 

In all honesty, it was probably the first time when you laid eyes on Lon'qu. He was attractive, with a strong jawline and a powerful body. You soon came to know that those muscles weren't just for show. He prowess on the battlefield was impressive beyond belief. His enemies often didn't get a single word in before they were felled, sliced to bits on his blade. Maybe it was crude, but you couldn't help the raw attraction you felt whenever he cut down an opponent, his exposed arms flexing with each movement. After a week of knowing him, or rather, knowing he existed (since he tried to flee on sight whenever you came close), Robin partnered you both together.

When you asked, the tactician merely gave you a flimsy excuse and a sly wink. Damn him. He knew you too well. 

Though, you couldn't blame him. He had likely noticed the longing glances you spared the myrmidon and was trying to do something nice for you.

However, the first battle with Lon'qu at your side was far from nice. He refused to stay close to you, and nearly got caught in the blast of a wide-ranged fire spell you aimed at the Plegians you were trying to mow down. After the battle, Lissa and Maribelle were both too busy to patch him up, as there were higher-priority patients;. You adamantly insisted that he let you bandage his wounds, and spent a half-an-hour practically chasing him around camp, wearing him down until he let you treat his arm. 

He was hard-headed, but at least came to acknowledge that you were trying to do something to make up for the damage you caused. He even insisted that it wasn't your fault—that it was his own slowness that caused his injury. 

All things considered, Lon'qu was a kind man. He hid that behind his aloof demeanor and gruff way of speaking, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was a total sweetheart from you. The rest of your partnership progressed smoothly, coasting to where you are now, three weeks later.

"Lon'qu!" You actually manage to spook him when you plop your trap on the table, across from him. You don't miss the subtle jump his shoulders give, and you don't remark on it or ask about it. He's a prideful man. Calling attention to any lack of awareness might make him get sulky or unwilling to talk to you, "Good morning!"

"...Good morning." After three weeks, you've managed to wear him down to actually greet you in the mornings, instead of grunting awkwardly. He isn't much for conversation, but it's getting easier. 

"How're you?" You take a huge bite of your roll and fix him with an intrigued gaze. Before coming to the Shepherds, he likely didn't have many friends, because he wasn't used to this kind of casual interaction. How lonely was he, back then? It hurt you to even about that. 

"...Fine." Not much a talker, but you've come to expect that after a near month of knowing him. "...How're you?" A smile curls onto your lips, but you don't tease him. Teasing him might discourage him from branching out. 

"I'm good! I got the last big roll that they had for breakfast! Gaius always gets to it before I can," You try to talk more just to let him know you better, to make him more comfortable. So far, it's worked. He no longer becomes tense when you approach him, no longer puts his guard up as soon as you walk in the door. Knowing that you've progressed this far is incredibly satisfying and relieving, but you want more. You want to know more about him, want him closer. You really, really want him to hold you in his loving arms, but he's too skittish to initiate any kind of contact and you don't want to push it on him or risk scaring him away. For someone so strong and resolute, he's oddly timid when it comes to social exchanges and affection.

You can’t fault him for it, though.

“He’s troublesome,” Lon’qu remarks, taking a bite out of his potatoes, “He tried to take my dessert the other day. I would have given it to him, had he asked. I don’t like sweets.” You hang onto each word. This is the most he’s said at one given time in weeks. 

“Yeah. He’s charming, though. I think that makes up for it.” You say casually. Lon’qu merely grunts in response and you guess you said the wrong thing. Though, you’ve easily fawned about guys in Lon’qu’s presence, before. He’s always been just fine with letting you do all the talking, no matter the subject. You glance up from your food, contemplative.

Is something different now?

\---

You don’t think you’ll ever be used to fighting. Sure, you grew up slinging spells, but only recently did you start having to kill actual people. You don’t want to get used to hurting others. And you don’t want to get used to getting hurt yourself. 

Blood seeps from the wound in your side as Lon’qu cradles you in his arms. Your head bobs against his chest as he cuts through the camp. The noises of general chaos after the battle are starting to fade out as dark spots swim at the edges of your vision. You’ve been fading in and out of consciousness ever since you were stabbed. In your defense, it hadn’t been a lapse of concentration that did you in. 

A swordmaster had been aiming a well-placed strike towards Lon’qu’s back. All you could do was jump in the way, or let him die. Aiming a spell at the enemy would have likely gotten your ally caught in the crossfire. And you couldn’t live with yourself if you hurt him, again.

You can hear him talking to you. He sounds like he’s pleading. The light around you goes dim and you realize he’s brought you to the medical tent. Lissa and Maribelle are all over you in an instant. You feel bedding against your back, and it goes dark.

When you wake up hours later, completely healed, you get an earful from both of them, but Lon’qu is nowhere to be found.

\---

Helping Frederick do his stupid training hour is the least of your priorities. In fact, it isn’t a priority at all. It just so happened that you owed him a favor, one that he happened to call in today, the day that just so happened to be the day after you were wounded in battle. 

Of course, you weren’t injured, still. Lissa and Maribelle had healed you flawlessly. But there were still aches and pains—aches and pains you worked through for an hour of grueling training. It was only an hour, and you would usually be fine with that. But your body protested at every moment. You endured blows from Chrom’s practice sword and were forced to dodge some of Henry’s most vicious spells. By the time the hour was over, you made a beeline for the baths. The warm water pouring over your exhausted muscles was a complete relief.

Now, standing in the tent you share with Lon’qu, you’re changing from your daily attire into night clothes. He’s been out all day, likely sulking and training in the woods. He’s probably still pissed at you for the other day. And while you understand that, you also don’t think you did anything wrong, either. 

You’re in the middle of lifting your shirt over your head when the tent flap opens, a chilled breeze instantly flowing into the tent and causing a shiver to roll down your spine. You whirl around, catching sight of Lon’qu, still as a statue, wide-eyed. His gaze, as startled as it is, roams up and down your body. Is he checking you out? Does he like what he sees? You want to scold him for knocking but you can’t even open your mouth.

After a moment of deliberation, he slips inside the tent and silently steps forward. His movements are awkward, and they tell you he has no experience with intimacy and tenderness. Still, his fingers are gentle when they reach out to brush along one of your scars that extends from your stomach to your hip. His thumb rests on the hem of your trousers and his gaze draws back up to your face.

“...I’m sorry,” His face is tomato red but he’s gotten passed his fear of interaction. His hand doesn’t move, warm and heavy against your skin. “I should have been faster.”

“It’s not your fault,” You assure him, hesitantly reaching up to grab his wrist. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, warmth pooling between your legs. Who knew such a chaste touch could arouse you? You swallow nervously. “We’re partners, but if I make a stupid mistake, it’s my fault.” An hour ago, you would have adamantly insisted that you made the right choice. But you can’t do that when he’s acting so sweet, feeling so guilty. Is this your fault? You feel like it is. 

There are way too many unaddressed feelings between the two of you, and you can feel the tension throb in the air. Shakily, you lift his hand to your lips and place a kiss on his knuckles. The gesture makes him freeze and you’re afraid that you’ve taken it too far.

But then he’s crashing into you, making you stumble on your feet as he drives you back, arms wrapping around your middle to pull you close, close as you can be. His lips press tight to your own without preamble, and you can feel his inexperience. The kiss is clumsy and desperate, but it gets his point across. You swipe your tongue over his bottom lip and he opens his mouth. The kiss deepens as his hands slide up and down your back, jerky and raggad in motion but still desperate. 

You slide your knee between his legs and the friction makes him give a shuddering gasp, suddenly pliant in his arms. 

“I really love you!” Is the first thing you say when you part. It’s definitely a sudden confession, but you figure that you might as well lay some groundwork for this relationship while you still can. He levels with you with an expression that is both dazed and exasperated.

“I know. I love you, too.” And he’s kissing you again, shoving himself close, like he can’t breathe without you, can’t stand to be apart. This time, he forces his tongue into your mouth, still clumsy, but the enthusiasm is endearing and fuck, you moan when of his hands journeys south, groping your ass. He makes sure that you’re breathless by the time he pulls away, placing rushed kisses up and down your jaw. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.” He murmurs softly. 

“No, I wanna,” You say, just trying to catch your breath. “I’m just surprised that you wanna touch me, is all.” 

His hands snap back to your hips and you find yourself dumped onto your shabby futon, eyes wide as you stare at him. Even in the dim light, you can tell that he’s flustered. His cheeks are red and he has trouble looking you in the eye, so instead he moves his gaze down to your chest, shimmying backwards to grab the waistband of your trousers. He pauses there, hands lingering, just gripping. 

It hits you that he’s probably lost in thought, mulling over what just happened and what you’re about to do. Sensing that hesitation makes you sit up and reach for his warm hand, looking at him with a tender gaze and a smile you hope is reassuring.

“It’s alright.” You soothe. You’re probably just as apprehensive as he is. But you’ve reached a point where your nervous is blending with giddiness and it’s all making you feel strangely light. 

He slides your pants down your legs and you lay back, raising your hips to help him. You’ve only clad in a bra and panties, now. And it leaves you feeling strangely exposed. It’s impossible to stop how nervous you feel when his gaze runs up and down your body.

“You’re beautiful.” He murmurs softly. He balances himself above your hips, knees digging into the futon, refusing to put any weight on you. You reach forward and grab the hem of his jacket, giving him a pointed look. His face goes red but he nods, disrobing. You follow the motions of his hands and fingers as he undoes belts and buttons. The ornate garments he wears crumple around him in a pile of expensive fabric.

“You too,” You whisper, arms winding around his shoulders when he lifts himself over you. The impatience he behaved with earlier is gone, replaced by tenderness, vulnerability. This is better for what is probably going to be his first time. You want it to be special. You want to take care of him.

His lips tenderly kiss along your neck as he lowers himself to your chest, worshipping your skin. You tilt your head to give him better access, sighing, shutting your eyes. His teeth graze along your collarbone and the suddenness draws a soft moan from you. That moan escalates to a yelp when he moves to the crook of your neck and bites the skin there, intent on leaving a mark. His hands glide behind your back and you arch yourself up, hands moving to unclasp your bra (since you know he’ll likely have trouble with it and don’t want to draw him out of the mood).

There’s a dawning look of awe on his face as more skin is exposed. He mouths along your chest, giving kisses and occasional nips, testing the waters of what you like and what you don’t. You squeal when his tongue blatantly rasps over your nipple, firming the bud. He chuckles softly, noise rumbling against your chest. His hands trace gently over your sides, your eyes screwing shut as he finally reaches your hips. His thumbs shakily slide under the waistband as he tugs them down to your ankles, sliding them off and having the decently to lay them neatly to the side of your futon.

A calloused thumb rests blatantly against your clit and your eyes blow wide open. It’s an experimental, cautious touch. But it has your hips squirming. His fingers trace along your wet folds, making you whine and keen. While you want him to go his own pace, you also want him to make you feel good. Only when your back arches off the bed does he finally slide a finger into your entrance, eyes widening at just how tight you are.

“Is that alright?” He questions, expression concentrated as if he’s in the middle of battle

“Yes!” You gasp out, fingers curling into the sheets. His thumb bumps against your bundle of nerves whenever he thrusts his fingers in and out. Your breaths go funny and your lips open wide to let out a series of cries and moans, only escalating in volume when his speed increases. He soon adds a second finger, fucking you with them in a steady, coordinated rhythm. It feels like forever and no time at all passes before he’s pulling them out of you, making you give a frustrated cry. Half of the camp can probably hear you, but that doesn’t matter.

“Lon’qu,” You stretch your arms out, beckoning him closer. “C’mon, please.” You barely get to see his eyes widen, his cheeks dust over red, before he’s on you again, placing kisses all over your face.

“You’re… so cute.” He says and it almost sounds pained. Before you can reply, he’s standing on his knees and doing whatever he can to pull of his trousers. He stumbled backwards, almost falling off the futon. It takes everything in you to not laugh, but he’s soon able to yank his boxers down, revealing a thick, erect cock. He’s big. The thought makes you tremble in both nervousness and excitement when he leans back over you.

He places one hand to the side of your head, and uses the other to align your cock with his entrance.

“You sure?” He murmurs as the tip pressed against you, prompting you to mewl.

“Yes!” You squeal, and he starts to push in. 

It’s an aching stretch, one that makes you open your mouth and give a series of trembling whimpers and whines. Your hands reach for his shoulders, unable to stop yourself from scratching him, marking him. The low moan he gives tells you he doesn’t quite mind. He’s coordinated for his first time. He doesn’t immediately sheathe himself inside of you, nice and patient. No doubt his years of training as a disciplined warrior help him control himself.

He gives a shuddering moan when he finally sheathes inside of you, eyes screwed shut, lips parted. His face is gorgeous like this, contorted with pleasure. 

After a few moments, he pulls his hips back and thrusts forward. It’s still slow, allowing you to get used to the sheer size of him. It still winds you, but you’re ready for the third thrust, and the fourth. It doesn’t take long for him to set a rhythmic pace, one that has you sliding up the bed with the force behind it. Your head lolls onto the pillow, eyes screwed shut as he plows into you. 

The futon creaks beneath your weight, and your shrill cries echo into the night. He drives himself as deep as possible, low growls growing in volume. It’s a deep, masculine sound that makes your toes curl, utterly infatuated with everything about him. Your legs curl loosely around his waist, keeping him closer, closer. 

When he hits even deeper inside you, he pushes his face into the crook of your neck and gives a hard bite, one that has you keening.

One of your hands ventures down to tease your clit, fingers working at the small bundle of nerves. However, your digits are pushes aside by one of his hands. The pads of his fingers impatiently push at and tease your clit, making your whines only grow louder in volume.

There’s clear desperation in your voice as you cum, your voice run raw by all your screaming. You’d be embarrassed, but he’s still pounding into you, riding out your orgasm before he also hits the peak, hot juices spraying your inner walls. You only have enough energy to give a breathy moan, body still shuddering and burning. For a few, precious moments, he looms above you, glazed eyes watching your expression. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking (it always is).

He falls to the side, futon screaming in protest, and pulls out of you without preamble. Your mixed fluids leak onto the bedding, prompting you to frown, nose wrinkling. You’ll have to clean that, later. But your focus is again stolen when he wordlessly drapes an arm around your waist. You both lack the energy to speak, but you grin wearily at him. 

The smile he gives back is perhaps the gentlest you’ve ever seen from him. It’s the reassurance that you need to know that this isn’t just a baseless romp in the hay. There’ll be plenty of time to figure out what you are. But that can wait until tomorrow morning, when you’ll be sore for a reason other than Frederick’s fitness hour.


End file.
